


Himbo Harry

by CozyRavioli



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Harry is an absolute moron, Himbo!Harry, Himbo!Lockhart, Hufflepuff Harry Potter, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentor!Gilderoy Lockhart, Morosexual Ron Weasley, but he means well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26655412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyRavioli/pseuds/CozyRavioli
Summary: Harry Potter is a genius. A hero of unparalleled intellect and strength of character.At least, that’s what he thinks.In reality, Harry might be the dumbest wizard to ever live. Thankfully, he’s cute at least. Watch in awe as he saves the world by accident and slowly convinces Ron to go out with him.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 55
Kudos: 226





	Himbo Harry

Harry amuses himself by making little drawings in the dirt.

He and the Dursleys have been holed up in a hut in the middle of the ocean for days now, in an attempt to dodge those suspicious letters that had been sent to Privet Drive.

Harry had never seen anything like it. Hundreds of letters addressed to him had flooded in through the windows and the chimney. A couple had even shot up through the loo while Harry was in the washroom. But it’s just as well — he had run out of toilet paper anyway. Shame he hadn’t thought to read it before he wiped.

His Uncle Vernon had told him that it was a new form of junk mail, and that Harry would do well to avoid opening the letters at all cost. Uncle Vernon is always looking out for Harry like that, the big lovable lug.

When he and the Dursleys had began hiding out in this rundown building, Uncle Vernon immediately noticed how filthy the beds were. He then graciously offered Harry the chance to sleep on the floor instead of the beds, because said beds were so dirty.

It’s like Harry said, Uncle Vernon is a truly stand-up bloke like that.

Harry lies down on his tummy, continuing to drag his index finger through the dust on the floor. Right now, he’s drawing himself. Well, him, but like, him with BIG muscles. And a cape.

It’s a very cool drawing and Harry is inordinately pleased with himself.

As Harry draws and happily kicks his feet behind him, some of the dust floats up into his nostrils. This causes him to sneeze, ruining his dust drawing in the process. Bugger.

“Ah well. Easy come, easy go,” Harry mutters. No sense crying about it. There’s plenty more dirt on the floor to draw in.

Just as Harry starts working on a fresh drawing of himself with even bigger muscles (and a skateboard) the door to their hut slams open with so much force that it falls off its hinges.

The great booming crash of the door against the ground immediately rouses the Dursleys from their dozing, and they all begin shrieking and crowd around in the corner together.

Harry lifts his head to see what all the fuss is about, and freezes in shock when he sees the imposing shadow of a man in the doorway, silhouetted against the thundering night sky.

He can see a long mane of frizzy hair, complimented by a great bushy beard. The giant wears a long, thick overcoat and Harry can see that he is hiding a gift box behind his back.

Harry rushes forward and embraces the mans midsection excitedly.

“Father Christmas!” Harry exclaims, barely reining in his excitement.

“Err…pardon?” Santa Claus questions.

Uncle Vernon shakily beckons Harry towards him. “That’s NOT Father Christmas, Potter! It’s July for Christ’s sake, you—DENSE twit!”

Harry looks up at Santa with awe. “Hey, that’s right! Why have you come so early?”

Santa bashfully scratches the back of his neck. “Er, no. Think you’ve misunderstood, Harry. My name is Rubeus Hagrid!”

“Hagrid?” Harry eyes Not-Santa up and down carefully. Ah, course not. This can’t be Santa — Santa has white hair. But if this isn’t Santa, then why has this ‘Hagrid’ fellow come here? “You’ll have to find another hut, Mr Hagrid. We’re already using this one…”

“Yeah, tell’em Harry!” Dudley, Harry’s best friend, chimes in.

Hagrid seems taken aback by Harry’s behaviour, but pushes onward regardless.

“No, no. Y’see, I represent Hogwarts—“

“HOGWARTS?” Harry takes a discreet step away from Hagrid. “I think they have an ointment for that, mate.”

Uncle Vernon snorts behind him, despite the situation.

Putting his hands up placatingly, Hagrid continues. “No, no! Not like that! Nothin’ like that! Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy! Dumbledore sent me to see ‘yeh ‘teh make that sure yer’ all right. Yeh’ weren’t respondin’ to yer’ letters is all...”

Ah, so this is the man sending all the junk mail.

Hogwarts? Dumbledore? Harry is pretty sure that this strange man is unwell and making most of these words up. “Huh?”

“Well, don’t tell me ‘yeh don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Hagrid crouches down on one knee and places his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “‘Yer a wizard, Harry!”

“I’m a what?”

“A wizard! And a thumping good one I’d wager, once you’re trained up a little.”

“A…what?”

Hagrid’s grin dims slightly and he chuckles nervously. “A — A wizard, Harry! ‘Yer a wizard!”

“…I’m sorry, I don’t—“

“You don’t—?”

This is…unexpected. Hagrid takes a deep breath and looks into Harry’s eyes beseechingly. “Surely ya’ know what a wizard is, don’t ‘ya, Harry?”

Harry worries his bottom lip between his teeth and thinks hard. “You mean…like an iguana?”

Hagrid barks out a laugh before he realizes that Harry isn’t joking. “No, No. Not like an iguana, Harry. That’s—“

“Because I do eat bugs sometimes. But that’s just ‘cause I get curious. Oh god, I don’t want to be an iguana. They have those horrible eyes…”

Hagrid gives Harry a light shake when he starts hyperventilating. “No, Harry. Iguanas are lizards. Lizards. ‘Yer a wizard. Wit’ a W.”

Sighing in relief, Harry slumps against Hagrid. Hagrid moves to awkwardly pat his back when Harry suddenly jolts away excitedly.

“Oh! Oh! I remember now! I know what wizards are!”

Hagrid lets out the breath he’d been holding in, relieved. Maybe this isn’t as bad as he had initially thought. “Well, thas’ great, Harry. Then we can—“

“It’s when a girl likes other girls! But then, I can’t be a lizard, ‘cause I’m a boy. You must be at the wrong house, Santa.”

“…Harry, those are lesbians. That ‘dun even sound close to wizard…”

***

After many more explanations which Harry pretended to understand, he was finally whisked away to Diagon Alley. Something about the name made him frown thoughtfully, but he didn’t dwell on it.

...No, but really, why is it called Diagon Alley?

The first spot that Hagrid brought him to was a place to buy him some pyjamas, or robes as Hagrid insisted on calling them.

While the tailor was busy taking his measurements for his new pyjamas, a pointy little blond boy started chatting with Harry.

You might be wondering how a person can be pointy, but you wouldn’t have to wonder any more once you met Draco Malfoy. He had a pointy chin, pointy eyebrows, pointy elbows and knees. He even spoke pointedly.

Draco was good enough company until he had offered Harry his hand. Harry, having never been presented with someone’s hand before just followed the example that he had seen in the soap operas that he watched with Aunt Petunia on the telly — he grabbed Draco’s hand, bent down and kissed his knuckles.

After that, Draco had gotten even pointier, somehow, and stormed off with his face bright red.

Harry hoped that he hadn’t made Draco angry, but the tailor woman tittered lightly and told Harry that he was going to grow up to be a little heartbreaker, so he figures he must have done something right.

After retrieving his newly-fitted robes, Harry sauntered back over to Hagrid and they went over to purchase a wand from some fellow named Garrick Salamander.

Hagrid lets Harry enter the shop on his own, saying that he has something else that he needs to take care of in the meantime.

The shop is very stuffy and smells sort of like the library, which puts Harry off. Honestly, there’s something very spooky about this place and Harry would much rather get his little magic stick and leave as soon as possible.

Impatiently, Harry approaches the empty desk and knocks on it repeatedly. “Hello? Hello! Hello?”

From a nearby alcove, a man slides into the room on a rolling ladder. His hair looks like a cotton swab and there’s an otherworldly, knowing look in his pale blue eyes. “I wondered when I would be seeing you, Mr Potter.”

Like Harry said, very spooky.

But still, he can’t let the man know how scared he is of him. He’ll have to be just as cryptic and mysterious right back. That’ll show him.

“And I…wondered when I would be seeing YOU, Mr Salamander,” Harry replies, scratching his chin contemplatively.

Harry smirks in satisfaction when the man looks briefly bewildered, before moving to look through the shelves on the wall once more. Two can play at that game.

“Right…Hm, it seems like only yesterday your mother and father were here buying their first wands.”

“Impossible. My parents couldn’t have been here yesterday. They died ten years ago. Shows what you know,” Harry crosses his arms smugly. He knew this man was a fraud.

The wandmaker’s eyes shift to Harry for a moment. “I meant no offence, Mr Potter. It’s only an expression.”

“YOU’RE only an expression…” Harry pouts, putting his hands in his pockets and kicking his foot against the floor.

Garrick hums noncommittally, unsure how to respond. He then places a wand down in front of Harry and urges him to give it a try.

They work their way through a third of the shop’s inventory with varying degrees of success. Of course, Ollivander can already sense which wand would suit Harry the best. But he likes building suspense.

Finally, Ollivander feels like it’s time. He retrieves the wand with eager hands. Holly and phoenix feather, the brother wand to the Dark Lord Voldemort’s.

Reverently, he hands the wand over to Harry. Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world. To think, the great things he would undoubtedly come to accomplish with that wand. It could very well be the deciding factor in—

Harry trips and face-plants onto the floor, snapping the wand under his chest.

Ollivander shrieks in abject horror, and his hands fly up to cover his gaping mouth.

Harry sits up and mournfully rubs his sore chest. “Shoot. Don’t worry, mister. I’ll pay for that one as well. Turns out I’ve got loads of dosh in the bank.”

The wandmaker barely registers the boys words, still staring with wide eyes at the snapped wand on the ground — sparking, crackling and broken beyond repair.

“Guess we need to keep looking, huh?”

Ollivander drops to his knees and cradles the broken halves of the holly wand in his palms as Harry continues to try out random wands around the store.

***

Hagrid holds Harry’s hand on the way to King’s Cross Station.

It might seem a bit familiar given that they’ve only just met…but Hagrid doesn’t want to risk Harry wandering off again.

Hagrid will need to warn Dumbledore about Harry’s…about Harry’s nature. The boy has a kind soul. He means well. And he’s a cute kid — the girls won’t be able to resist him once he grows up some. But, well, there’s no kind way to phrase it—

The boy is a bit dim, bless his heart.

Back at Diagon Alley, Hagrid had thought that it’d be a nice surprise to buy Harry his own pet owl. He picked out the most beautiful, gentle bird available. It was a snowy owl, and he knew she would serve Harry well.

When Hagrid showed the bird to Harry, he was very touched by the offer but politely declined, stating that he had already found a pet to bring with him.

Then he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a pigeon.

The pigeon was so docile and unmoving that Hagrid thought it might be dead for a moment, before it slowly blinked. Upon closer inspection, the bird appeared to be cross-eyed.

But Harry seemed so thrilled that Hagrid couldn’t bring himself to dampen his spirits. He forced a smile on his face and asked Harry if he chose a name yet.

“Harry,” Harry had said.

“…Er, no. I mean, have you named the bird yet?”

“Yeah? I named it Harry,” Harry repeated, looking up at Hagrid like HE was stupid.

Hagrid had looked up to the clouds and taken a deep breath. Merlin. “Harry…YOU’RE Harry. ‘Yer bird can’t be Harry too.”

Clutching Harry to his chest protectively, Harry eyed Hagrid warily. “Says who? I like my name. It’s a good name. So, I’m going to share it.”

“I don’t—I just…” Hagrid let out a world-weary sigh. “‘Yeh know what? You’re right. That’s…very kind of yeh’, Harry.”

Harry beamed back at him and shoved the pigeon in his pocket. One of it’s limp wings was hanging out the top.

Shaking his head at the memory, Hagrid breaks out of his reverie.

…And promptly realizes that Harry has disappeared.

In the middle of a crowded train station.

Hagrid looks out over the sea of heads in the crowd. Harry’s shock of messy black hair is nowhere to be seen.

“Argh…Ah well, I’m sure he’ll figure out how to get on the platform.”

Hagrid turns around and heads back to Diagon Alley. He needs a drink.

***

Harry has no idea how to get on the platform.

He had asked one of the attendants who works at the station, but when he mentioned Platform 9¾ the man gave him That Look that people usually give him when he Asks Questions.

Sitting on his trunk forlornly, Harry pets Harry’s little feathered head with his thumb and waits for Hagrid to find him.

As he’s sitting, feeling sorry for himself, he notices a wild pack of gingers in his peripheral vision.

He watches as the family runs through a brick wall, one by one.

Wait.

Harry does a double take. No, yeah, they’re definitely running through the wall. Odd.

He turns back around, gazing thoughtfully down at his trainers.

It take him a moment, but he gets there eventually.

“Ooooh!”

That must be how magical folk are meant to get on the platform. Harry stands up and puffs his chest out proudly, mentally patting himself on the back for his keen deductive skills.

Harry lines himself up directly with the wall and sprints forward.

Unfortunately, Harry crashes into the wall full force. His head thunks against the bricks and he falls flat on his back.

Sitting back up, Harry rubs the bump on his forehead and inspects the wall again. Ah, he ran into the wall between platforms seven and eight by accident.

“Piss.”

Just as Harry starts to stand up, the one remaining redhead hurries over to help him up.

“Blimey, are you alright? You need to watch where you’re going, mate.”

Harry gratefully accepts the hand that was offered to him and gets pulled to his feet by the ginger boy. “Psh, I meant to do that.”

The freckled boy gives him an odd look but shrugs and lets the comment slide. Seeing as Harry hasn’t let go of his hand yet, the boy gives it two firm shakes. “I’m Ron. Ron Weasley.”

Ah, introductions. Good thing Harry was able to practice this with Draco at Madam Malkin’s.

Harry tugs Ron’s hand up and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”

Ron eeps and tugs his hand back as if he’s been burned. Oddly enough, Harry gets the sense that Ron is about to punch him or something before his words seem to register.

“Wait? You—You’re Harry Potter? THE Harry Potter?!” Ron shouts, his previously flushed face turning pale and slack-jawed.

Harry preens and rubs the back of his neck, discreetly flexing his bicep in the process. “The one and only…I’m uh, kind of a big deal around here.”

“You’re telling me! I can’t believe it! Do you really have the—the—y’know?” Ron gestures vaguely to Harry’s head.

“The what?”

Ron leans closer, as if he’s imparting some great secret. “The scar.”

Harry frowns and rolls his sleeve up to the elbow, looking down at the scar on his forearm that he got from trying to make friends with a squirrel in the park when he was nine. “How did you know about that?”

“Wha—No, I mean the one on your forehead. You know — THE scar,” Ron says, peering closer to Harry’s face than he’s comfortable with. His breath smells like pancakes. There are worse things to smell like, Harry supposes.

Harry holds his fringe up with his hand, showing off his curse scar to Ron, who looks equal parts scared and delighted. “You mean the N?”

Ron stops fawning over his forehead long enough to frown at him. “What do you mean, ‘the N’?”

“The scar on my forehead. It’s shaped like a capital N,” Harry explains, pointing towards the scar.

“No, it’s shaped like a lightning bolt! Like in all those stories about you! Folks always mention the lightning bolt scar!” Ron insists.

“Uh, mate, I think I know more about my own scar than you do. It’s clearly an N.”

Ron must be getting frustrated, because his cheeks are getting red again. One of the great wisdoms that Dudley had imparted upon Harry was that if a ginger starts turning red, they either have a crush on you or you’re about to get elbowed.

Harry hurries to defuse the situation.

Waving his hands in front of him, Harry says, “Well, maybe you’re right. Who knows. I’m just saying; why would it be in the shape of a lightning bolt? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Ron throws his arms up in the air, exasperated. “It make more sense than it being a capital N!”

“Well, maybe it’s the dark lords initial?”

“What?”

“Yeah, like it was his way of marking me with his signature or something. The dark lord…Noldemort.”

…

“No, you’re right. That’s rubbish,” Harry admits.

Ron’s face has paled significantly. When he speaks next it’s in a hushed whisper. “First of all, you said his name wrong. Second of all, you’re not supposed to say his name at all!”

Harry’s face twists in confusion. “Whose name?”

“You-Know-Who!”

“…I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“I don’t know who.”

“You don’t know You-Know-Who?”

“No, do you?”

“I know You-Know-Who. Why don’t you know You-Know-Who?”

“I want to know who, but you know who and won’t tell me who You-Know-Who is even though you know You-Know-Who and I don’t...know who...”

“VOLDEMORT. HIS NAME IS VOLDEMORT!” Ron screams in frustration as he tugs at his shaggy red hair.

“Stop yelling at me!” Harry shouts back, tears welling up in his eyes.

Ron’s anger immediately gives way to guilt when he sees Harry’s bottom lip quivering and his shoulders slump. He hasn’t even made it to Hogwarts yet and he’s already managed to make the Boy-Who-Lived cry. Mum’s gonna have a fit when she catches wind of this.

“I’m sorry, mate. It’s just—You’re not supposed to say his name out loud. So instead we say, well, you know…”

“I know NOW. You could have just said so in the first place.” Harry wipes his sleeve across his eyes before anyone else sees, because cool heroes with big muscles don’t openly weep in train stations.

Before Ron can apologize further, his mother’s head pops out from the wall in front of them.

“Ronald Weasley! The Hogwarts Express is going to leave any moment now! Quit lallygagging and get on the train before I put my foot—“

Halfway through her threat, Molly notices a timid boy hiding behind her son. The boy looks to be at least half a head shorter than her Ronald, and is looking up at her with big green doe eyes.

Molly walks the rest of the way through the platform and approaches the boy, barely resisting the urge to coo and pinch his cheek. “Well, hello! It’s so nice to see Ron making friends! He’s usually so prickly with the other children…”

“Oi! Mum!”

Molly nudges her indignant son out of the way and ushers Harry towards the wall with a hand on his back. “Let’s get you on the train, dear. You don’t want to be late.”

Harry lets himself be lead through the wall and Ron begrudgingly follows behind, mumbling something or other about traitorous parents.

***

“I heard that first years need to fight a troll for the sorting ceremony…”

Harry ignores all the whispering from his soon-to-be peers and instead focuses on making sure his hair is just right. He’ll want to make sure he’s presentable for his big debut.

A few of the girls in their little group have tried to strike up a conversation, but Dudley told him that girls have cooties — so, no thanks. Instead, he’s been chatting with Ron about his favourite cartoons while Ron nods indulgently and pretends to know what cartoons are.

After several moments of waiting, the deputy headmistress returns and beckons them to follow her into the great hall.

Harry thinks her name might’ve been McDougal or something. He had been busy counting Ron’s freckles when she first introduced herself.

Sixty-seven, by the way. And that’s just on his face.

McDougal lines them all up and begins calling out their names. Evidently, all they need to do is wear a hat for a moment, and then they’re sorted.

A bit dull, honestly. Harry was hoping there’d be a dragon to wrestle or something so that he could impress his new BFF Ron, but whatever.

After the first few names are called Harry figures out that the list has been sorted alphabetically and his face twists in displeasure. ‘Potter’ is pretty far down the alphabet and his legs are tired.

Having lost the last bit of his patience, Harry pushes his way past the other students and begins walking over to the sorting hat.

McDougal’s brow furrows when she sees Harry is cutting ahead in line. “That’s enough. You are to return to the group immediately and wait for your turn, Mr Potter—“

Upon hearing his name, the great hall erupts in chatter.

“Did she say Potter?”

“Harry Potter?!”

“The Boy-Who-Lived? Here? Really?”

“Pass the potatoes, Crabbe, you greedy guts.”

Harry grins smugly and continues on his way to the sorting hat, undeterred by the Professor’s stern look.

Just before he sits down, Harry shoots finger guns at the crowd and winks. Several Gryffindors swoon.

Draco Malfoy chokes on his pumpkin juice.

The deputy-headmistress knows that she doesn’t have a choice now that all the students are so worked up, but makes a note to talk to Harry about his entitled behaviour later.

The sorting hat is placed upon Harry’s head and—

Nothing happens.

Harry wasn’t sure what he expected, but…Seriously nothing is happening. Maybe the hat is busted?

The entire school waits with bated breath as the hat judges Harry. The longer the sorting hat takes, the more whispers break out among the student body.

“How long has it been now?”

“A hat stall? I can’t remember the last time that happened!”

“Crabbe, seriously. Leave some for the rest of us…”

“It must be because he’s such a genius! He’s so emotionally complex that the hat can’t decide where to place him!”

Meanwhile, Harry jolts in his seat when an incredulous voice speaks in his mind after seven minutes of silence.

“…My word. There is…nothing going on in here. Any given human’s mind is comparable to an ocean in its depth…and you are like a puddle, Mr Potter. I’ve never seen anything like it. Ever.”

“Hey!” Harry replies, wounded.

“Now, now. It’s not necessarily a bad thing… Alas, I have no idea what to do with you.”

“Do you want to flip a coin to decide which house I go to?”

“There are four houses, Mr Potter. We can’t flip a coin for it.”

“I’m sure I could find you a four-sided coin somewhere,” Harry offers.

“…Fuck it.” The hat droops down in agony before shouting, “Hufflepuff!”

Most students begin to clap politely, despite being baffled over the decision. The saviour of the wizarding world...in Hufflepuff? 

Meanwhile, the Hufflepuffs are absolutely losing their minds, stomping their feet and wolf whistling.

“First Diggory, and now Potter. It’s finally our time. Hufflepuff will rise,” Pomona Sprout mutters to herself, ominously, as Professor Flitwick scoots his chair further away from her.

Harry is about to march over to the other Hufflepuffs when he spots Hagrid at the end of the staff table. He’s happy to see the giant, but also wants to go give him a piece of his mind for abandoning him at King’s Cross.

As Harry approaches Hagrid, Pigeon Harry flies out of his robes and begins pecking at Professor Quirrel’s turban.

Harry is pretty sure that’s a hate crime and hurries over to stop his pigeon, who is apparently a racist. He’ll need to have a talk with him about that once they’ve settled down. Harry refuses to abide by bigoted fowl.

Quirrel is ineffectually batting his hands at Pigeon Harry to no avail, so human Harry lunges forward to grab the feathered fiend.

Unfortunately, Harry misses and grabs Quirrel’s face instead. He’s about to apologize when Quirrel begins screeching at the top of his lungs and clawing at Harry’s hands.

Harry immediately backs off but the damage is already done. He and the rest of the school watch in horror as Quirrel’s skin begins cracking and crumbling.

As he slowly turns to dust, Quirrel’s turban unravels and falls to the ground, revealing a second snakelike face on the back of his head.

“Kill him! Kill the boy, quickly!” Snakeface yells.

Quirrel attempts to obey and charges at Harry, but he is effortlessly disarmed by Headmaster Dumbledore before he can get close enough.

As the last of Quirrel’s body finally fades away, his breath rattles, “Mister Voldemort…I don’t feel so good.”

There’s a tense, disbelieving moment of silence as the school processes what they just witnessed.

Then Harry vomits all over Quirrel’s remains.

Dumbledore graciously vanishes Harry’s puke with his wand and lays a comforting hand between Harry’s shoulder-blades, before turning to address his students.

“Fifty points to Hufflepuff, for defeating the Dark Lord Voldemort.”

As the great hall explodes with applause and screaming, Harry wipes the last bit of bile from his lips and smiles charmingly at the gathering crowd.

Not a bad first day, he reckons.

...

Wait. Harry frowns.

Wait a minute...

...

...

...

“Oh! Diagon Alley! Like, diagonally! Oh, that’s a fun name!”

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re reading this, I have placed a curse on you. The only way to counteract the curse is to comment on this story and give it kudos, otherwise you will stub your toe at least once a week until the day you die.


End file.
